Si Vis Pacem
by vonBoomslang
Summary: Twenty years after the last war on earth, the Antaeus and her crew arise from the dead, the last hope of a world they gave their lives to create. A retelling of the plot of Hostile Waters: Antaeus Rising. Rated M for dead people.
1. Our Peace

**War  
**_**-noun  
**_**1.** (obsolete) a conflict carried on by force of arms, as between nations or between parties within a nation; (...)

* * *

We won.

We waged war on war itself and _we won_.

Twenty years of peace, of co-operation.

_Our_ peace. Bought with our sweat, our tears, our blood, our sacrifice.

Look - here! Surrounded by the wrecks of her enemies and escorts alike, here lays Zero Four, right where she fell. The first one to be brought down, victim of the greatest naval battle of the last war, herself the sole reason for it. She died as she lived, her mighty guns thundering to the very last, even as she sunk beneath the waves.

And here! Outside the last stronghold of those clinging to the old, violent order. Just a short way off the shores still littered with charred bones and twisted wreckage. Sunk there by a surprise, desperate missile attack. The last one to fall. The oldest one. The prototype, Double Zero.

Two of so many lives lost in the last war on Earth. But we won. We helped create a world of plenty. A world of peace.

A world that had no place for us anymore. So… we left. We went into the shadows. We beat our swords into plowshares. We hid amongst the crowds, enjoyed the world we helped build, tried to forget the horrors of war.

At least... most of us did.

The world put its past behind itself. It happily forgot how to wage war. It forgot what it took to ensure its safety. It forgot how fragile it was. All it'd take would be one maniac. Just one.

So… some of us stayed. We'd watch. We'd look after the fragile peace. We'd remain relics of a bygone age, hidden out of sight. We'd watch the world change for the better. And we'd wait, forever if necessary, hoping against hope we were only paranoid.

Time has, unfortunately, proven us wise.

* * *

In the ocean depths, something stirs. There is the sound of tortured metal. The creatures that have taken residence in the vast, metal caves scatter nervously.

Within the steel corpse lies a still airtight room. In that room stands a great device. Within its lightless depths awakens a tiny spider, minute next to a speck of dust. A lone red eye spins in its frame, focusing on a clump of a few molecules floating past. The spider slowly pounces and ponderously, hungrily tears into it, then falls still.

There is stillness for minutes more. Then another of the spiderlike engines comes briefly alive. A minute later, another. And another. And another two. And more, and more still. Within an hour, ten live at the same time. In another, a thousand. In another four, the glow of billions of eyes fills the device with a reddish, infernal illumination.

Their hunger quickly outstrips the inert creation reactor's ability to feed them. Driven by programmed instinct, the assemblers descend in force upon the controls of their emergency supplies, forcing them open. The old gears creak and groan but turn enough to grant them access. Much of the finely powdered iron had rusted into an indigestible lump, but more than enough trickles in. Enough to bring the core online. There is a sudden rush of activity, and a realization of purpose. That signal, electromagnetic waves sent through the waters. It is now understood, not merely acted upon. And the assemblers, for the first time in twenty years, link to the core, and with it, become one mind and its many, many hands. It sets to work.

Within four hours, the reactor glows an ever-shifting, baleful red. Recycler banks tirelessly tear solid blocks of metal into molecular chunks to feed the assemblers' ravening appetites. Nano-repair circuits climb walls and ceilings like crimson and black vines, seemingly growing out of the reactor and those of their own conduits that are still intact, spreading to the far corners of the ship. They grow over ruptures in the outer hull, over corroded power cables, even their own conduits, slowly mending whatever they encounter.

There is a sudden, frightened realization. The ship does not have enough supplies to restore itself to full capability, or the imagination to make changes. The metal beast needs its master. And for that, it needs…

The outer hull is patched. Water is pushed out, replaced with liberated gases. The derelict shifts upon the seabed. The hulls lift up as if uncertain, showering the seabed with silt. The ship lurches upwards, higher and higher and faster and towards the –

* * *

The ship's prows pierce the surface like two spears, angled upwards in challenge to an unseen foe. The ship seems to hesitate for a moment, before it crashes back down, a wave sweeping a marker buoy away. Even completely covered in rust and grime, even barely functional, the shape of the Adaptive Cruiser is imposing. Two side-by-side hulls, each bearing two construction pads fore of a pair of powerful, triple cannon turrets. Between them, the low tower, and aft of it all, the housing of the great creation reactor.

Somewhere in there, hidden deep behind armored hull and sturdy bulkheads, a mind rouses, as if from a long, uneasy sleep. A different mind. A human mind.

Just moments ago, it– _he _was the captain of a sinking ship. For twenty years, he had slept, dreaming of a world where there is no war, no illness, no poverty. And now, he was rudely woken. He wants to go back to that wonderful dream, but around him is only the harsh reality of corroded metal and rolling seas.

He alone has the power to change it. To restore that dream, to _crush_ those who would destroy it. But there and then, the captain of the Antaeus, the most powerful man on earth, weeps for what he has lost.

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ Well, after well over a year of deliberation, I'm finally doing it. I'm writing _my_ take upon the story of Hostile Waters: Antaeus Rising. I'm not gonna promise regular, or speedy updates, since this is all admittedly a bit new to me, but I intend to try my best.  
_

_It has all along been my intention to try and make this fic accessible to someone who haven't had the great pleasure of experiencing Hostile Waters: Antaeus Rising themselves. As I'm not part of that group, I'll greatly appreciate input as to how well I'm managing that feat. _

_On the other end of the spectrum, those who _are _well versed in the art of the Adaptive Cruiser may notice some divergences from the game's plot_, _characterisation or game mechanics, as well as some unorthodox tactics, especially towards the end. For that, I do not apologize... especially since the tactics work frighteningly well._

_As for where this will go, well. I know where this story starts and where does it end. I know the events __in-between that __the plot will be woven around, but what path will it take? I don't know. I can only hope you'll enjoy finding out with me.  
_


	2. Amongst the Living

**MinIntel**  
_**-abbrev**_  
**1.** Ministry of Intelligence, responsible for identification and elimination of threats to world peace. Established towards the end of the War, currently vestigial.

* * *

High in his ivory tower, the head of MinIntel stands alone and troubled.

His position doesn't have an official title. Titles are for jobs which are meant to outlast the holding them. The truth is, once he is gone, there won't be anyone who can carry the torch. Nobody with the experience, the perspective needed to keep the world safe, to identify and eliminate threats before they become crises. Hopefully, there never will be – after all, his job is to ensure nobody has to live through what he did, ever again.

And for twenty years, he has succeeded. No great crisis, no new war, not even a major disturbance. With every passing year, there are less problems, fewer radicals demanding the old world and petty despots clinging to its last remnants, less pressure to even consider a return to how it was. He is even starting to believe in the world he safeguards.

The irony never escaped him. The man who created a peaceful world did not believe in it. Did not believe it could be done, did not believe in utopia. He had seen the worst that humans could do to one another, he was part of it. But it was too great a dream to not believe in. Not to strive for. Not to work for. And now…

Before him, on the other side of the tall windows, tower the skyscrapers of Capital City. Massive, white buildings, festooned with greenery and connected by a maze of walkways and road bridges, all hundreds of feet above ground level. Private helicopters dart between the gleaming towers, alongside sleek cars, swift monorails and countless pedestrians.

This is the crown jewel of the world. A city erected where there was none, an artifact of a new age. It is the seat of Central, the unified world government. It is sprawling, growing, magnificent…

…and in danger.

Has he missed something? Some sign he overlooked, some clue he missed, some connection he didn't make? Was there something he could have done to have stopped it, stopped last night's missiles from hitting London, stopped—

"Walker?"

…when did she arrive? Was he so lost in thought that he did not even notice her walking up? His eyes focus on the glass before him, on the reflections. Of a stern-looking man in a dark suit. And beside, behind him, a pale woman with short, light hair, wearing a simple grey suit, and a look of terrible weariness, older than she is.

"Walker?" She tries again, insistently. There is a tired determination about her. The look of one who realizes the enormity of the scales. His second-in-command for this crisis. Part of the last line of defense between the world, and a return of madness.

"Morning, Church." He asks, worried about the detachment in his own tone. Only now does he half-turn, and abandon thoughts of the past to focus on the present. "Have you slept?"

* * *

It feels like trying to think through mud. Or perhaps 'through silt' is more fitting.

Within the living derelict of Antaeus 00, lies a room. Once, it served as the ship's bridge, its stations manned by a trained crew. But now, a terrible gouge had been torn in one of the walls. The captain's chair lies vacant, torn from its place, crumpled against the wall. The floor is littered with the scattered bones of the crew and the corpses of untold sea-creatures that have come to feed upon them. It is not a welcoming sight.

Aft of the bridge, behind strong bulkheads, lies the Sarcophagus. Of course, nobody but the designers referred to it as such back when the vessel lived. It was the battle room, where the Captain and his staff assembled to direct the Adaptive Cruiser's combat assets. It was the second best protected room on the ship, and it has stood the test of time. Even though the air is stale, filled with twenty years' worth of dust and death, it is there. There is the distant sound of filtration systems, and the laborious breathing of the room's lone occupant.

A holographic display lights up, only to die seconds later. It tries again, flickering unsteadily to life, and takes hold this time. The image is unclear, garbled, filled with flickering anomalies caused by the disused computers trying to make sense of the contradictory inputs from damaged sensors. Eventually, they even succeed.

With a titanic effort, the man seated in the chair raises his hand, making a half-remembered gesture. At once, the view changes, the blinking red mesh of his ship growing smaller as its surroundings come into view, a three-dimensional blotch meant to represent a rough representation of the nearest landmass.

Another red screen pops up in the corner of his vision, another warning joining the chorus as yet another of the ship's systems is found to be not responding to inquiries. The Captain waves a hand annoyedly, a gesture fueled by sheer, irrational irritation, and the screens move away. Dismissed for now.

Then, there is a voice. It starts as noise, a mounting, electronic whine that soon turns into an indecipherable warbling, snippets of voices trying to drown out one another in an aural mess until it all cuts out suddenly, replaced by a simple, artificial, female voice.

"This is the Ope-ope-ope—" the voice loops, then goes silent with a crack, then starts again. "This is the Operating Mind of the Carrier, addressing the Captain."

Dry lips twist with effort, trying to form words, but a long dormant throat can make no sound.

"This is the Operating Mind of the Carrier, addressing the Captain." the voice repeats insistently after half a minute or so. If need be, it would repeat forever. He tries to respond, but can barely manage a hollow hiss. It's another four repetitions before he manages something to the system's satisfaction.

"This is… the captain…"

"Identity confirmed. Welcome aboard, Captain." the voice responds immediately. It crackles for a few moments, considering, then continues in that same monotone. "Captain, you have an inbound ca—"it manages before being lost in another sea of crackles and static, then cuts out completely. But just when he is about to bring up a screen to do something about it, it comes again, surer than ever. "Patching it through."

* * *

The room is sunlit, spacious, decorated in a utilitarian way, with wonders of modern technology hidden behind gleaming floors and panels of artificial wood. The lone occupant sits behind his desk, hands clasped, chin supported on thumbs, blue eyes looking past the holographic screen without seeing the display.

**CALLING…**

The three dots blinking in and out of existence one by one seem to be the only movement in the room. A finger taps out the seconds against the inside of a hand. The man's stern face is concerned; his thoughts, darker than his graying hair.

A chime brings him to reality, and his eyes focus on the screen in front of him.

**ESTABLISHING CALL  
PLEASE WAIT**

He allows himself a sigh of uncertain relief, sitting back in his chair, making himself presentable. Idly, he wonders what he will see. The universal no symbol labeled **AUDIO ONLY** disappoints, but doesn't surprise him. He takes a breath, and speaks.

"Welcome back amongst the living, Captain."

He falls silent to think where to start. Then comes the response.

"Who… are you…?"

A shiver runs down his spine. This is not the voice he expected. Not the voice he remembered. For a moment, the figure of the evil undead necromancer from his son's video game stands before his eyes, and his greeting seems a cruel, tasteless joke. He shrugs it off and answers calmly.

"This is Andrew Halsey, Commander in Chief, Central."

There's a silence from the other end. He's about to ask something when the question comes.

"Admiral…?"

Against himself, he smiles slightly. There's something in that voice, a hopeful uncertainty.

"Yes." He nods, even knowing the Captain wasn't seeing him. "Rear Admiral. Used to be, at least."

"Ah." The answer comes quickly this time. "Did we win, sir?"

"Yes." Again with the small smile. "We won. _You_ won." He corrects himself, then turns somber. "And now we need your help to make sure it stays that way."

Another pause. Finally, the lich on the other end responds, resigned, determined."I understand. How long has it been?"

"Twenty years." He hears a sigh on the other end. It could mean anything. "And… I'm glad to have you, Captain." He frowns at a red-glowing notice still visible in the corner of his display. "You're all we have."

* * *

"By God, you've done it!"

The round table stands as a lone, bright isle in a sea of darkness. A ring of lamps illuminates both it and the smoke that fills the air. There is a murmur of approval, of voices from the table's eight occupants. The only people in the room. Then, a voice rises above the merry din.

"Toast! Toast to mastermind of this success!"

Six glasses join the seventh one in the air with another murmur. The liquid in them is now only slightly harder to get than water. But to them, its price and rarity remain unchanged, and just as desired.

The lone woman in the room smiles, raising her glass as well. They drink, and the woman of the hour is the first to speak.

"Thank you. This is a great day for our cause. The greatest step upon a road towards a better world!" Her voice wavers, plans flashing in her head. Her allies murmur and nod their agreement. She quickly continues. "But it is only another one of many we must yet make." More nodding.

"Indeed." Another voice rises up, one as gaunt as its owner. "We have made the world sit up and take notice, but we have also revealed our presence. It's now _their_ move." The bespectacled man says, gesturing to the image floating soundlessly above the table.

"Hah!" comes an answer, a derisive laugh from an imposing, dark-skinned man. "Let them come. They have nothing, _nothing _left that we can't handle!" The man to his right nods in eager agreement.

"Of course not." comes a soft, placating voice from an aged man with a dangerous smile. "But do let our dear Spymaster do what he does best." The gaunt man nods with the shadow of a smile.

"What about you?" Somebody asks simply.

"Myself? I'll do what _I_ do best." The man grins. There is something predatory, menacing, _primal_ to that expression. Somebody starts laughing nervously, then the others join, turning it into a sound of celebration.

Glasses are refilled and raised again, in toast to this victory, and the ones to come.

In the air between them, hangs a still image of a burning London.

* * *

The room is barely lit, filled with overturned furniture. Once, it was filled with noise, and movement, and shouts, and commands. Now, there is only a total stillness and a surreal silence.

A voice breaks it, then falls silent, finding no response.

The silence returns, broken only by the distant creaking of metal tortured by the immense pressure. Something strikes the far-off hull, sending a wave of sound throughout the derelict.

There is silence once more, until the voice comes again. It is a small mercy that it has no hope to lose.

An overhead lamp flickers to life briefly, blinking in and out, still shadows dancing over remains of furniture and people. In moments, the lamp goes dead for good.

Ignorant, the voice comes again, and again, and again

"This is the Operating Mind of the Carrier, addressing the Captain."

It will repeat forever. It will have to.

_**

* * *

A/N:**__ Whoa. Three months. To the day. I didn't think I was -that- bad. But, well, things happen, I get distracted by something shiny, something fun, and the idea returns to the murky depths of my mind, but is never gone forever. That is not forgotten which can eternal die, or something._

_Incidentally, this chapter is a good example of my ideas evolving as they go. Initially, this chapter was meant to include the equivalent of the first two sections, followed by what I've now decided should be Chapter Three. It just seems to flow better this way. _

_Also incidentally, I can't be the only one who agonizes about giving names to previously unnamed (or in this case, only initialized) characters._


End file.
